Rosie shrugged. “I’m all right. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
“You better call me if you need help.” Kitty gave Rosie a knowing stare.
“I will.” Although she and Kitty both knew Rosie would tough it out alone for as long as possible.
They entered the kitchen and Rosie indicated for Kitty to close the door that led to the hallway.
“By the way, I didn’t bring these.” Kitty nodded toward the collection of jars.
“Huh?” Rosie placed the box on the kitchen table and picked up a bottle: oliu d’olivi.
“I found it on the verandah.” Kitty helped herself to the jug of water from the ice chest. She waved it in the air and Rosie nodded that yes, she’d like some.
Rosie started sifting through the contents and placed them on the bench. She lifted the bottles out, examining the contents. They were filled to the brim with preserved fruit and vegetables, the labels neatly written in what she suspected was Sicilian. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked at the collection then noticed a slip of folded paper. She opened it and in neat swirly writing, it read:
Thinking of you.
T
Kitty sat at the table and sipped the water. “Who’s it from? A certain neighbor from Italy?”
“There are lots of people from Italy in this town.” Rosie folded the paper and stuffed it in her apron.
“There’s only one who makes you go bright red like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.”
Rosie grabbed a loaf of freshly baked bread and concentrated on cutting it into thick slices. She put them on a plate and carried it over to the table, along with a jar of lemon butter she’d made a few days earlier.
“How are you really doing, Kitty? You’re looking rather…flushed.”
“I’m feeling rather cranky, bloated, tired, and more done than a Sunday roast. I’m not even at my due date.”
“So, pregnancy is agreeing with you then.”
Kitty lifted her feet onto the chair and gulped the rest of her water. “My ankles are fatter than my thighs.”
Rosie grabbed the jug from the ice chest and filled up Kitty’s glass. She sat down and took a sip out of her own.
“Now, let’s get back to the very handsome Tomas Conti who likes to deliver homemade goodies. He seemed quite taken with you at the dance.”
“Stop it!” Rosie threw a nearby tea towel in Kitty’s direction. Her friend ducked then poked out her tongue. “I’m not interested.”
“Your nose is growing.”
“And your luck is running out.”
Kitty shrugged, her expression one of nonchalance. “I’m pregnant so you can’t pick on me.”
“Playing that card, are we?” Rosie got up and started placing the bottles back in the box.
“What are you doing?”
Rosie continued until the box was full. “I’m just putting them away for now.”
“So, your father doesn’t see them? I love your father, but he is racist.”
Sitting heavily on the chair, Rosie stretched her legs. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Than singling out one nationality and accepting everybody else?”
Rosie paused. “Mum told me there was some dispute or other going on with the Contis. He’s been too sick for me to ask, but if it’s an ongoing thing then someone in this family has to deal with it.”
“Oh.”
She eyed off the basket of homemade goodies. “Do you think that’s a bribe?”
Kitty held out her hands in a questioning manner.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Rosie said, hoping Tomas wouldn’t resort to such tactics. “Maybe I should pay a visit to Mr. Conti.”
“Shouldn’t you find out what the problem is first?”
“I don’t want to bother Dad.”
“Hmmm,” Kitty said. “So…how are things going around here? Is Bartel helping?”
A lump formed in her throat as the muscles in her neck tensed. “There’s only so much Bartel can help us with.”
“The workers need a proper boss. Someone who is vested in this business,” said Kitty.
“I know.”
“They need you. Your father needs you.”
Rosie let Kitty’s words hang in the air. They echoed the exact same thoughts that had spun like a merry-go-round since her father had become incapacitated.
“They’re going to have to let me stay. Bartel’s been doing it alone for the last couple of weeks, but he needs help.”
“I don’t get why they were against you staying in the first place,” said Kitty.
“They expect me to build a life in Brisbane, not have a tough life on the farm, blah, blah. I’m not buying it entirely, though.”
“Why not?”
“Why would they not want their only surviving child at home with them?” Rosie shook her head. “Mum hasn’t been…doing that great and we know what’s happened with Dad.”
“Then it makes sense for you to be here.”
“Yeah, I just wish it was under different circumstances.” Rosie picked up a jar of olives and studied it. The weird little things in juice didn’t look particularly appetizing. “Maybe things worked out the way they’re supposed to.”
“Maybe.”
Kitty finished the water and Rosie poured her another. She let out a sigh.
“Stop it,” Kitty said.
“What?”
“Your father’s stroke was not your fault.”
“How did you…?”
Kitty tapped her head. “I moonlight as a mind reader. Didn’t you know?”
Rosie burst out laughing but quickly stopped when she heard her father’s raspy voice call from the living room down the hall.
“I’ll be back.” She retrieved the tray then hastened to her father.
“How are you feeling?” Rosie entered the room, forcing herself to sound cheery, even though her heart broke every time she saw his feeble state. He looked like he’d lost two stone and aged twenty years.
He mumbled something and she strained to hear him.
“Pardon, Dad?”
Since the stroke her father had needed to adjust to the changes in his body, including his speech. Although it had only been a short time, Rosie had discovered that by studying his lips and watching his eyes, she could usually figure out what he was saying. Her mother, however, found it extremely difficult.
Her father attempted one more time, his words rolling into each other, but she finally got it.
“Tired. So very, very tired,” he said.
“Perhaps if you close your eyes again—”
“No.” Spit flew out and landed on his crippled hand. “Too much sleep.”
She hadn’t yet mastered how to deal with her father’s elevated crankiness. Perhaps she never would. Although, it had only been a short time and everyone still needed to adjust. Everything was a waiting game right now—a waiting game with no end date.
She stabbed the fruit on the tray with a fork and held it in the air. “Custard apple?”
Her father shook his head like a petulant three-year-old.
“Please, Dad, you need to eat.”
He drew his lips together and he refused to look at her.
“Kitty’s here. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
“Baby?”
“Not yet, she still has some time to go.” At least her father showed interest in something. “Shall I go get her?”
He shook his head. “I’m tired.”
“I understand everything’s topsy-turvy right now, Dad, but—”
“You cannot understand.” His speech sounded more slurred.
“You’re right, I can’t fully understand. What I do know is there are a whole lot of people worried about you and praying—
”
“Praying is useless.”
“It’s not just praying, Dad. Your workers are going the extra mile to keep this place running. Bartel has gone above and beyond, but neither he nor the other workers can do it forever.”
Her father grunted and continued staring into the dark corner.
“Something has to change, just for the short term.” She refused to believe the doctors when they said recovery was nigh impossible and everyone just had to adapt to her father’s new world.
“Dad…”
Silence.
“Please, Dad…”
More silence.
She slammed the fork and fruit onto the tray. “You have to eat. And you have to make a decision about what we’re going to do about Tulpil because we can’t keep going on the way we are.” Her father’s reticence only fueled her determination. It was now or never. “Given the circumstances, it should be me who takes over. It only makes sense because I have a duty and a vested interest in ensuring things run smoothly.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. All her father did was keep goddamned silent.
“No.”
Rosie bit her lip, not trusting herself to not run off at the mouth. In the distance, she could hear Kitty running water and the clink of dishes being washed. She should be resting, but of course Kitty refused to be waited on hand and foot. If Rosie were in the same position she wouldn’t allow it, either. A small smile formed on her lips.
“There is nothing to smile about.” Her father grumbled.
“No, there isn’t. I’m not offering to do this so I can stay at Tulpil. I’m offering because you need a family member overseeing the operation. What’s that saying? Blood is thicker than water?”
“Bartel has been with me for a long time. He’s been doing the tallies for the men and payment for suppliers. He’s also collecting payments for deliveries.”
“But—”
“Rosie…” Her father closed his eyes for a moment, his lips drawn into a thin line. “Just leave it be. Bartel will manage the farm. He knows the men and how everything works. We need to keep this place going. So many men and their families depend on it. Maybe—” Her father shifted position and his movements were jerky and appeared painful. “Maybe you could do the books in the office. That would free up Bartel to be with the men more. However, you step over the line, you lose the position.”
“All right,” she said.
“There is one more condition.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised. “Yes?”
“You tell me why you don’t want to return to Brisbane.”
“We’ve been through this—”
“Rosie…”
She couldn’t. It was too painful.
“Rosie?”
“I was fired.” The words tumbled out with embarrassment, hurt and fear rolled together. She tried to keep her voice calm as she recounted the events leading up to her rapid departure. All the while, she averted her gaze. Finally, she summoned the courage to look directly at him.
He had been staring at the dark corner, and when he finally looked at her, her fears melted away. “I am so sorry, sweetheart.”
“It’s all right, Dad. I’ve come to terms with it.” It was better for him to hear this than to know the wound remained raw.
“You shouldn’t have to come to terms with it.” His voice was loud, way louder than he’d spoken since the stroke. “He needs to be hung, drawn and quartered. I want to wring his neck.”
“Dad, please, the last thing you need is to get upset.”
“And I was concerned about the men here,” he said quietly.
“I feel safer at Tulpil than anywhere else, Dad.”
His fingers twitched and she reached for his hand. It shook beneath her grasp.
“Sweetheart, I do not want you to use Tulpil as a place to hide.”
“I’m not doing that, I promise. Dad?”
“Hmmm?”
“I have a question and I really need to know the answer. Mum mentioned something about a dispute between us and the Contis.” There, it was out in the open, floating above their heads.
“What did she say?”
Small beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and she feared this question may have been too soon. “She just said there was an issue.”
“Land.”
“Huh?” she asked then remembered who she was speaking to. “Pardon?”
“Land. They said the title is wrong and some of our land is theirs.”
“Is that true?”
Once more, her father concentrated on the dark corner of the room.
“Is it, Dad?”
“Yes.” It came out like a hiss.
“So, did you make things right?”
“Yes.” The rising anger within was palpable.
“How much did we lose?”
“That patch on the river bend,” he said, annoyance pushing out his words.
“Will it have a big effect on us?” she asked.
He feebly shook his head. “No, but that’s beside the point. That land has been in our family for years then these people come in and start checking titles and what-not—”
“So, it wasn’t legally ours?” She shifted forward but the strong sunlight hit her eyes. Leaning to the side, she said, “We did the right thing giving it back.”
Her father grumbled.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” she said.
“Flaming Italians.”
Rosie stood. “We were in the wrong and they were in the right. Why are you always so angry with Italians? Would you feel this way if our neighbors were French?”
“No.”
“Spanish?”
“No.”
“Lithuanian?”
He looked away and she was annoyed with herself for pressing so hard when he was unwell. If the issue had been resolved, then that was all she needed to worry about.
His eyes finally connected with hers. “You will never understand.”
“I could try.” Her voice sounded calmer and she hoped it would encourage him to finally open up.
“It’s the past. Water under the bridge.”
“This water seems to be gushing like a river in wet season.”
“Leave it alone, Rosie.”
Rosie let commonsense take over and she sat quietly. Her father looked ready for another nap and she needed to be careful how far she pushed him. He’d just agreed to give her a chance to do the books so she should be grateful for small victories.
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.” She meant every word.
It took quite some time before her father turned to face her again. The anger had left his eyes and in its place, a deep sadness had taken up residence. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Just…thank you.”
“Are you thankful enough to eat some fruit?” She gave a cheeky smile.
His small nod encouraged her to pick up the food and hold it in front of him. He took a minuscule bite and spent a minute chewing.
“Thank you for trying, Dad.”
He swallowed hard. “Small steps. No leaping.”
But Rosie felt she was about to take the biggest leap of her life.
Chapter 9
1943—Palermo, Sicily
Tomas stood at the base of the steps to his family home, hat in hand, heart beating rapidly. It had only been two weeks since he’d seen them but it felt like a lifetime. When he’d last crossed this threshold he’d stormed out the door and onto the street, frustrated with his parents’ inability to understand why he would ditch his engineering career in favor of fighting for the rights of his countrymen. Maybe now they would be willing to hear him out.
He knocked on the door, the early morning sun shining on his bac
k. Every second seemed to drag. Rachel’s operation had gone surprisingly well and she’d spent the past week in a spare room at Dr. Bianchi’s house but their time was up. Rachel needed a new place to recover and Tomas had racked his brains for a solution. As promised, Tomas stayed by Rachel’s side as she moved in and out of consciousness, continually muttering about a man named Paolo. Tomas tried quizzing her, but the conversation had been one-sided. Why hadn’t Abato mentioned this Paolo before? Was he a contact? Is that who the notebook should go to? Rachel hadn’t been in any state to hold a conversation so, for now, Paolo remained a mystery and just a name that haunted her lips.
Tomas raised his hand to knock again but hesitated, unsure whether he should be relieved or anxious if no one was home. With all the confusion about Abato and the young Italian soldier, as well as the exhaustion of getting Rachel to safety, Tomas wasn’t sure he had the energy to deal with his family. For Rachel’s sake, though, he needed to give her shelter and his family was the best option.
Tomas knocked hard and this time heels clacked along the floorboards as they hurried toward the door. It creaked open, leaving a small gap and a pair of dark brown eyes peering at him.
“Nonna, it’s—”
The door flew open and arms enveloped him. “My boy! My boy has returned! Come! Come in!” She placed her small hands on his back and ushered him into the foyer and into the kitchen.
Her warm greeting left him dumbfounded.
“What are you waiting for? An invitation?” Nonna laughed. Tomas shook his head.
“I—”
“You think I would be mad at you forever? A lot has changed since we last saw each other.”
“It’s only been two weeks,” he said.
“Well, a lot can change in twenty-four hours.” She gazed up at him, the light catching the deep wrinkles etched on her face. When he was a kid, he’d loved running his fingers over those lines and asking what each one represented. Nonna had a story for every single line: This one is for the worry for our country’s future. This one is for the happiness and laughter you bring me. This one is for the smiles your nonno gave me every day.
Nonna gently pushed him onto a kitchen chair. “You have heard?”
Tomas leant forward. “Heard what?”
Nonna let out a sigh and sat down heavily on the chair opposite. “And you call yourself a soldier.”
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